


JAOA: Stage One

by BlackRose (darthneko)



Series: JAOA [12]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death Fix, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthneko/pseuds/BlackRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Knight is required to take a Padawan; every Initiate dreams of being chosen. However, some destinies start in the most unlikeliest of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	JAOA: Stage One

**JAOA: Stage One  
Year of the Republic 25,002**

* * *

"Wake up. Anakin will be here soon."

There was no response for a moment, then dark blue eyes opened easily, focusing on Obi-Wan. A small smile tugged at Qui-Gon's lips as he stretched from his slumped position in his chair, his hand reaching up to brush the cheek of the younger man. "I was awake."

Obi-Wan frowned at the gravely breathed whisper, placing a reproving fingertip over Qui-Gon's mouth. "Don't. You'll tire yourself."

The Jedi Master grimaced but did not voice any further words, waving away Obi-Wan's concern. The younger Jedi let his hands rest against the side of his lover's throat, fingertips pressing gently against pulse and glands, monitoring. Qui-Gon made a half sound of protest but submitted to the touch, turning his head to let his lips brush Obi-Wan's palm. The younger man smiled, threading his fingers through the long silvery strands of hair that brushed Qui-Gon's shoulders.

[I'll be alright; you needn't hover.] Mild reproof in the thought, but love and understanding as well.

The fingertips slid along the length of Qui-Gon's throat, caressing rather than testing. Obi-Wan's voice, however, was factual. "You're breathing easier this morning. Still, you should save your strength for that, not for talking."

Qui-Gon raised one silver brow in an arched look, nodding pointedly towards the door to the suite. Obi-Wan laughed softly. "For Anakin I'll make an exception. But a brief one, mind you. Go get ready - he'll be here shortly."

The older man rose from his chair before the table, turning to brush a brief kiss across the other man's lips before stalking towards the sleeping chamber, shedding his light morning robe as he went. Obi-Wan looked after him, the mix of his feelings like the twinge of a bruise pressed wrong. The livid scars piercing front and back of the Jedi Master's chest were vivid reminders, stark white against pale skin, pulled taut over ribs that shone not with the healthy gleam of muscle but the thinner shadows of illness. Qui-Gon had never bowed to weakness, not through all the long recovery so many years ago, nor now, when old injuries and the relentless march of time conspired against him. The cut of his spine was still graceful, the broad shoulders unbowed, and if the smoothness of his movements had become slightly stiffer over time then Obi-Wan could still honestly say that his former Master moved better than many men in their prime.

Letting the mix of worry and pride go, Obi-Wan went through the motions of clearing the dishes of their morning meal from the table and setting the central room to rights. Qui-Gon re-appeared just as he was finishing, dressed but for the free cascade of his silvery hair. Obediently wordless, he extended the leather thong to Obi-Wan, who took it with a small smile and reached to gather back the strands and fasten them properly.

It was a small thing, a concession to pride and nothing more, but something that had taken the Jedi Master some time to come to terms with. Muscles of chest and shoulder across the left side, hampered by damage and heavy scar tissue, had never quite regained full mobility. It showed itself in the little things, the gesture required to lift both hands above and behind the head to fasten a little strip of leather in his hair. Obi-Wan tied the strip and indulgently let his fingers comb through the soft strands - at the outset Qui-Gon had, in stubborn frustration, cut the whole of it nearly as short as Obi-Wan's own trimmed hair had been at the time, to the younger man's extreme dismay. Coaxing over the years had grown it forth again and now Qui-Gon submitted to the necessity of Obi-Wan's help with gratitude, if not entirely good grace.

The door chime rang softly. Obi-Wan untangled his hands with a last regretful caress and went to answer it.

"Good morning, Obi-Wan." Anakin's smile was marred slightly by the red tinge to his eyes. Obi-Wan smiled, recognizing the look from many a morning after a sleepless night of last minute lessons.

"Made a late evening of it, did you?" Stepping back, he ushered the young man in. "You're in luck - there's half a pot of spice tea on the table."

"Force be with you," Anakin replied reverently, already reaching for the cup which Qui-Gon had poured and was holding out to him. Half the cup disappeared in a long swallow, followed by a relieved sigh. "I think there were times I've lived on this. Good morning, Master Qui-Gon."

"Good morning, Ani." Listening closely Obi-Wan could catch the still wet rasp behind the whispered words, but it was an improvement over the days before. "What were you up doing?"

"I met Kiot at the games last night. He just returned from assignment; I haven't seen him in years. We spent half the night talking." Anakin downed the remnants of the tea, which was obviously working as a stimulant to thoughts and tongue. Reaching for the pot, he poured himself another cup and claimed one of the chairs. "He's taken a Padawan. Over a year ago. I was surprised - he's a year younger then I am. She's a smart girl for her age, she'll make a fine Knight someday."

Qui-Gon chuckled softly, the sound skipping roughly. "Which means you aren't any closer to deciding what to do yourself."

Anakin had the grace to blush slightly. "No, sir. I've watched them all - some of them are very strong, they'll be good Jedi. But I can't imagine trying to teach one of them. I wouldn't know where to start." He shrugged slightly, turning the cup between his hands. "I'm a good Knight, sir, you've said so yourself. But I'm not a teacher."

"You're a strong Knight," Obi-Wan replied, taking the seat across from Anakin. "And I think, when it comes to it, you will be a good teacher."

"You need the right student," Qui-Gon added, his glance passing fondly across Obi-Wan. "When you find them, you will know. The Force will not have it otherwise."

Anakin nodded gravely. "Then I will wait for the right one," he said simply.

Obi-Wan laughed softly. "The Council may not let you wait too long," he warned. "We need every Knight who can teach."

"Then why don't _you_ take another Padawan, Master?" Anakin asked curiously.

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan poured the last of the pot of tea into the younger man's cup. "Don't think the Council hasn't considered it," he replied. "But a teaching Master should be an active one and I won't accept an assignment away from the Temple." His gaze flickered to Qui-Gon, then away. "I'm serving where I am, teaching the younger classes. Someone must."

Qui-Gon brushed his fingertips across Obi-Wan's wrist, a gesture of comfort and absolution from the truth. "They would ask me," he said jokingly, "but three... four, counting you, Anakin... have tired this old man out." Seeing Anakin's eyes wander slightly, the Jedi Master barked a laugh and reached to push a bowl of cenai towards the young man. "A word to the wise," he cautioned. "If you take a human as your Padawan, take a girl. They're much easier to keep fed then young boys."

Both Anakin and Obi-Wan flushed but the younger man gamely reached for a fruit all the same, deftly peeling the thick rind from the pale globe. "You're not old," he protested around a mouthful.

Qui-Gon waved the comment away. "Old enough." Leaning back in his chair, he abruptly changed the subject. "What did the Council have to say of your report?"

Anakin grimaced. "They don't tell you?"

"Not any more. Why should they?" Qui-Gon shrugged philosophically. The older man had not been sorry to relinquish the Council seat he had never wanted. "Did they say anything to you?"

"Not much," Anakin admitted. "At least, not _to_ me. I think they're worried about the state of the rumors. There's worlds where it's safer to not say that you're Jedi."

"There have always been those," Obi-Wan murmured. "Not everyone respects what we stand for."

"Well, there's more now then there were before," Anakin replied, a thin crease marring the high arch of his brows.

"The Jedi have had lean times before," Qui-Gon said softly. "We sustain. Even in this, at our time of weakness, we shall survive." He looked at Anakin, a shadow passing over the sharp planes of his expression. "It will be hardest on the young who must rebuild." The last word dissolved into a vicious wet cough which the Jedi Master rigorously muffled, the spasms violently shaking his chest.

Obi-Wan was on his feet at once, hands pressed to Qui-Gon's chest as he eased the labors of the damply congested lung. Anakin surged across the table, reaching to extend his own strength until Qui-Gon's breath came easier, the spasms easing. Leaning back, the older man took slow deliberate breaths, the color gradually returning to his blanched face.

When he would have opened his mouth Obi-Wan's hand was firmly there, the younger man's gaze serious. "Not a word," he ordered crisply. "Not a syllable, Qui-Gon. Or so help me, I'll... I'll set you to doing astronavigation problems with the ten year olds!"

Raising his hands in defeat, Qui-Gon signaled his acquiescence. Obi-Wan took his hand away slowly, his expression cautioning against any disobedience. With an inaudible sigh, Qui-Gon rubbed ruefully at his chest. [I'm sorry, Ani.]

"No, Master Qui-Gon, I'm sorry," Anakin replied, shaken. "I shouldn't have kept you talking."

[I can't always be mute.] Qui-Gon reached for Obi-Wan's hand to take the sting from the irritated words, shrugging to let them know that it was primarily pointed at his own failing flesh. [Thank you.]

Obi-Wan sighed, raking back the loose mass of his hair. "You... Between the two of you, teaching a class of initiates is easier. Which I will have to do soon... Qui-Gon, I want your word that you will rest."

[I haven't much choice, do I?] The Jedi Master smiled, admitting his own defeat. [I will rest, Obi-Wan. I promise.]

The younger man glared down at his lover, then turned to Anakin, finger stabbing out in a way that made the former Padawan press lower in his seat as he had so many times when caught in a misdeed by that gesture. "You. Have they given you anything to do today?"

Anakin stammered for a moment. "Ah... no, Master."

"Good," Obi-Wan smiled grimly. "Then you'll stay here and make sure that this brainless fool," he gave the tips of Qui-Gon's hair a small tug, " _sleeps_." He rounded back on the Jedi Master. "No reading, no walks in the garden, nothing at all that doesn't involve laying down and _breathing_ as the sum total of the occupation. Understood?"

"Yes, Master," Anakin replied meekly, echoed by a slowly drawled [Yes... Master] from the wryly grinning Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan continued to glare at him for a moment more, then relented and leaned down to gently kiss the other man. "I'm selfish," he admitted, leaning his forehead against Qui-Gon's. " _My_ heart can't take another relapse."

[Then we'll see that it doesn't happen,] Qui-Gon silently reassured him, reaching up to gently cup Obi-Wan's face between large hands. [For your sake.] Giving Obi-Wan a little shove, he made small shooing motions. [I'll be alright. Anakin will make sure that I behave.]

Hesitating, Obi-Wan turned again to Anakin. All jesting aside, there was naked reluctance and worry in his eyes. "If he tries to talk," he instructed the younger man firmly, "gag him."

[That won't be necessary,] Qui-Gon objected firmly. [Go. What sort of impression will it make on your students if you're late for your class?]

"If I'm late," Obi-Wan muttered, "I'll be prying them from the walls. Qui-Gon, go back to bed. I want to see you there before I leave."

Qui-Gon nodded impatiently, extending a hand which his lover caught and used to steady the older man as he rose. Anakin stood hastily, hovering a step behind as Obi-Wan escorted Qui-Gon firmly towards the inner room. By the time he slumped down upon the sleeping couch the Jedi Master's breath was rasping again, soft coughs punctuating each inhale. Obi-Wan stripped away his boots and outer tunic, easing the larger man back onto the piled pillows of the couch.

[Don't fuss, healer.] Even his mental voice was faded, but a touch of humor remained. [Go. Anakin will watch.]

Obi-Wan sighed, frowning worriedly. Reaching down, he passed light fingertips across his lover's forehead. Anakin felt the soft surge of the Force around them as the Jedi bound it to his spoken word. "Sleep."

Qui-Gon's eyes closed heavily; the Jedi Master did not even attempt to fight the command. Silence, broken only by the ragged breaths of the sleeping man, descended. Obi-Wan nodded, gesturing Anakin to step closer as he lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Let him sleep as long as he can. There's injections on the shelf - tavisil, to help his breathing. No more than once every six hours, so keep track of the time if he needs it. If his breathing stops, call the healers, then me."

Anakin flinched slightly. "It's that bad?"

"He's been improving," Obi-Wan sighed. "But I shouldn't have let him up yet. He hates being abed - if he wakes, make sure that he stays there." He shook his head slightly. "The healers can't dry the infection completely out of his lung, or rebuild the damaged tissue. He's developed resistance to nearly anything they can give him. Only time and rest can help."

"I'll watch over him," Anakin confirmed steadily.

Obi-Wan smiled slightly, pressing Anakin's shoulder. "Thank you. I'll return as soon as I can - I predict that class will be a little short today." Moving quietly, he gathered data pads from the small table on the far side of the room and left, pausing only briefly at the door to glance back. Anakin listened for the soft whoosh of the outer door of the suite, then sighed to himself. The worry that creased the lines of his former Master's face did nothing to lighten the tense vice upon his own heart. Moving a chair closer to the side of the couch, he seated himself where he could clearly see the slow rise and fall of Qui-Gon's chest.

The pale bluish tinge to the Jedi Master's lips and cheeks worried him. Perpetually shorter of breath since the day a Sith lightsaber had burned through one lung, Qui-Gon had been forced to compensate by proportionally lessening his activities. Now, listening to the remaining lung in the broad chest force air through fluid filled gasps, Anakin found himself unconsciously mimicking each breath through his own lungs as though he might offer their strength to the sleeping man.

The thought gave him pause, particularly as one breath caught and stuttered painfully, resuming the rhythm at a shallower pace. Opening himself to the Force, Anakin slowly wove a net that encompassed the two of them, himself upon the chair and Qui-Gon upon the couch. He let the net settle into them, condense and compact into a single solid connection woven of many myriad smaller connections, all aimed with the singular goal of linking that faltering breath to his own.

A heaviness settled on him, pressing against his chest. He felt the phantom congestion, the odd off-balanced sensation of drawing breath through only one side of his chest. Shaking it off, Anakin concentrated solely on his own breathing, the slow paced meditation rhythm that he had first learned years before. Drawing breath, he heard it echoed precisely in the man before him, heard the simultaneous whoosh of the slow exhale. Relaxing slightly, he leaned back in the chair, satisfied with his solution.

The meditative breathing brought a conscious drifting with it and Anakin did not fight it. Leaning his head back he half closed his eyes, keeping just enough awareness to listen to their combined breathing with an attentive ear. Within, the root of his personal problem clamored for his attention with scores of young faces... too many to count and far too many to choose among. Letting his mind still, the nagging problems and worries and thoughts of the day fade slowly away, Anakin reached out to the countless memories and drew each one forth as a man might draw forth a single grain of sand from the mound before him. Held so, singular, each one shone with its own preciously individual worth.

Strong in the Force, quick of mind, centered in temper, skilled, spirited, young and eager... it seemed as though all of them had one trait or several that would make them desirable. Even removing the option of those that were too young, yet, to be taken as Padawans there were still far too many to choose from. He let them drift through his thoughts, all of the dueling bouts he had witnessed over the last few nights, all of the youths he had passed in the halls of the Temple or seen as they hurried from class to class. He was not alone in his dilemma - talk among the Knights had been of little else than what the opinion was of this one or that one. Some picked quickly; others, like himself, could not seem to even begin to narrow down the choices.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. His own choosing had hardly been regular, to come to the temple late and then be immediately taken on by Obi-Wan. He knew the tale of Obi-Wan's choosing as well, when the young Obi-Wan had been assigned to AgriCorps and only Qui-Gon's reluctant intervention had changed the course at the last moment. /When you find them you will know,/ the Jedi Master had told him. /The Force will guide you./ From Master to Padawan, to Knight and Master and Padawan again, a chain as secure as ever forged in blood from parent to child and a cycle that they all walked the ascending path of until they passed it on to the next link in the chain.

/The Force will guide you./ Casting loose all of the details, Anakin stilled all thought and let his mind go where it would, let the warmth of the Force drift aimless within his memories, attentive to each slight pull or tug that might guide his path. Inhale. Exhale. A hand reached aimlessly into a basket of stones, waiting to see which would fall into his palm when he drew it forth again and trusting that it would be the right one.

Timeless within the still stream of the Force, it took him some moment to realize that a hand was upon his shoulder. Blinking, he slowly drew himself forth, feeling thought and memory and self collect into one again. Obi-Wan was beside him, a small frown creasing the Jedi Master's brow. Startled, Anakin realized that the patterns of light cast from the windows had progressed across the room and that some time had passed.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said when he saw the younger man focus upon him, "let it _go_." For all that his voice was no more than a whisper it still carried the icy tone that Anakin had dreaded in his youth. Glancing in almost panic at the sleeping couch, he saw that Qui-Gon still rested, chest rising and falling easily in the same pattern as Anakin's own.

"Wha..."

"Let. It. _Go_." Obi-Wan's voice was the personification of command and Anakin, long trained to obey without question, dissolved the connection between himself and Qui-Gon. The sleeping man's breath caught for a moment, then resumed, steady but faster.

Obi-Wan sighed softly, raking back his hair as he relaxed. "You have no idea how badly you frightened me," he told Anakin. "I couldn't even rouse you for fear of upsetting the balance between you. You're not a healer, Anakin. That was a foolish thing to do."

Though the words were hard the tone of them let Anakin know that the worry was equally for himself as it was for Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan ruffled the short brush of his hair slightly, a gesture used countless times for comfort when Anakin had been small. "It didn't seem to do any harm," Anakin protested quietly.

"This time. His condition could have affected you, instead of the other way around. If you had gone too deep the illness would have fed off of your strength. The healers don't like to do that - they say it's too risky to be controlled." Seeing Anakin's expression, Obi-Wan relented, hands pressing warmly to the younger man's shoulders. "It was foolish... but thank you. He's slept sound all of this time and there's nothing better for him."

Smiling slightly, Anakin covered Obi-Wan's hands briefly with his own. "Are your classes done? Do you need anything else?"

Obi-Wan grinned ruefully, jerking his chin towards the data pads stacked once more upon the table. "Not unless you want to help correct student work." Urging Anakin up, Obi-Wan gave him a small push towards the door. "You've missed midday meal. Go get yourself something to eat. And Anakin... thank you. For everything."

Anakin stepped forward briefly into the other man's embrace, arms tight across each others shoulders as they drew comfort for the worry that neither could speak. It was disorienting to feel Obi-Wan's cheek against his own, to realize once again that the man he had spent all of his youth looking up to was now no taller than he was himself. Lines of worry had become graven in around eyes and mouth, the graying hair still full but retaining only a scattering of the amber color Anakin remembered. Holding Obi-Wan tighter, Anakin swallowed painfully, realizing that his worry was not just for Qui-Gon but for both men. Reaching into himself, he wished in vain for some insight, some flash of sure knowledge that would offer hope and comfort. Instead, all he could offer was the momentary support of his arms and the whisper of assistance. "If you need anything, Master, call me. I won't be far."

"I know." Obi-Wan stepped back, cupping Anakin's cheek for a moment. "He'll be alright, Anakin. We all will." His smile was strained, but what it lacked in warmth shone in his eyes. "Go on. You need to eat and a few cups of tea hardly count. We'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, Master." Anakin echoed the smile, then reluctantly stepped back, turning towards the door. When he looked back Obi-Wan had seated himself in the chair beside the couch, cloak wrapped around him as though to ward off a chill. Sighing softly, Anakin left.

Once outside his body informed him strongly that it was, indeed, hungry. Turning his steps towards the public dining hall, Anakin went to the small table of food left out for those whose schedules made the main meals impossible. A few pieces of bread and slices of cold meat did much to improve how he felt. Taking a barabel fruit with him, the tart juice staining his fingertips purple, he returned to his own quarters.

His own rooms, compared to his former Masters' quarters, were sparsely empty. One assignment blurred into another, until he was sometimes startled to return to the the Temple and find his rooms not only as he had left them, but kept meticulously free of dust. Few personal belongings dotted the shelves - tools and mechanical parts cluttered the tables, but what he had been doing with the pieces he couldn't recall.

Only in the sleeping chamber did some sort of personal decoration take control - a richly colored tapestry runner from Naboo lay across the small couchside table, upon which lay a collection of still holos. A younger Obi-Wan against a tropical backdrop. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon to either side of Anakin, taken the day he had passed the Trials. Amidala in the tastefully simple lines of her wedding gown, Anakin beside her. Amidala laughing, Amidala with the newborn twins cradled in her arms. Amidala, eyes closed in sleep, the long fall of her dark hair cascading around her.

Anakin sat down on the edge of the couch, picking up the last holo. His angel, fierce and fiery with a strength that could put ten Jedi to shame. But at rest she ceased to be Queen and became what she was - an angel, beautiful beyond compare. He loved her rare laugh, the sweet lines of her smile and the throaty quality of her voice. He loved to watch her with their son and daughter, her head bent over the small ones in her arms as she hummed songs that her own mother had lulled her to sleep with.

Luke and Leia... Anakin put the holo down, laying back against the couch on his cupped hands. Light and dark, like polar oposites - Leia with her mother's dark coloring, a quiet and sober baby, while Luke had faded to Anakin's own golden color, a laughing and cheerful child. Two years... it seemed hard to believe. Yet each time he returned they had grown so much, from babes in arms to stumbling toddlers with their first words already upon their lips.

Despite Amidala's tight-lipped refusal to speak of the matter, Anakin knew that the day was fast approaching when the twins would need the training of the Temple. Already the Force swirled around them, caught by the insistent will of strong children and molded, unthinkingly, to give their lisped words strength. He hated to put Amidala through that parting but it was unavoidable. For himself, it would bring a guilty sort of joy - boarded at the Temple, the twins might at least be where he could easily see them between assignments. He would have no hand in their teaching but they would be nearer to him.

They grew so quickly... idyly, Anakin let himself imagine the future; Luke grown to Knighthood, strong and proud in the robes of a Jedi, Leia in gowns of state before the Senate with her mother's eloquence and keen statesmanship. Or, Anakin admitted, vice versa; though Luke was marginally stronger in the Force than his sister. Both might choose to become Jedi though it would disappoint Amidala. They would rise quickly regardless of what they chose, Anakin was sure of it.

The foresight caught him as it always did, hard and fast, a flash that skated across his mind like the skipping of a smooth rock on water. Sandy haired, his face stamped with a combination of his parents, unmistakable. Garbed all in black, lean and strong, the blue tinged blade of his father's lightsaber a deadly competent whirl in his hands.

Luke. Anakin gasped, sitting abruptly, the vision vanishing as quickly as it had come. Luke, a grown man, his face pared by hardship down to the striking lines of bone and sinew. Luke, dressed as no Jedi would dress but wielding Anakin's own lightsaber.

Anakin's heart skipped painfully. There had been danger in the premonition, but hope as well. He reached out, hoping to find more, but there was nothing and searching would give him naught but a blinding headache. It came in flashes only, and this flash told him little. His son would grow to a man, a man trained as a Jedi. But would he be a Jedi Knight? Or had the vision been that of disaster, his only son turned upon the path of darkness?

No, surely not. Anakin did not question the truth of the flash - he had one of the highest records of accurate foresight among the Jedi. But flashes did not tell the whole story, only a frozen instant taken out of context like a lost puzzle piece. Comforting himself with that, Anakin took a deep breath, releasing the tension that gripped him. Flashes were rarely comfortable and there were many times Anakin would gladly have done without them.

Rubbing at the base of his neck, he turned the image over once more in his mind. Perhaps... perhaps the vision told of a future where Jedi could not always safely wear the robes of their order. Certainly there were places where even now he did not like to proclaim himself. Yes, perhaps that was it. The danger of an assignment to a place where Jedi were not welcome, his son dressed to disguise himself, a grown Jedi Knight.

But in the depths of memory was the taste of sand in his mouth, the frightened frantic beat of his heart as he ran towards a gleaming ship, hearing the clash and hum of lightsabers behind him as a demon faced Sith warrior forced Master Qui-Gon back. A Sith Lord dressed all in black.

Shuddering, Anakin forced the memory away. Surely not. Surely. Luke would come to the Temple, would train as a Jedi. He would be a strong Knight and Anakin would watch his progress with love and pride. Luke would be a fine Padawan to a Jedi Master in the not so far future.

/Unless.../ his traitorous mind whispered. /Unless.../

Shoving the thought away, Anakin drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, opening himself to the Force. Centering himself, he let the comfort of the Force drive the shadows from his thoughts, wash away the lingering disturbance of the foresight. Luke would follow the path of Light, under the guidance of another Knight. The future was as yet unwritten, clouded with only bursts of clarity, and while mindful of it a Jedi needed to concentrate more on the present. His own immediate future lay not with his children, safe with their mother on distant Naboo, but with a student chosen from among the ranks of initiates. Sinking slowly down into the mediation, pushing all other thoughts away, Anakin resumed his drifting quest for some guidance in the right choice.

Hours later, as the late afternoon sun burned orange through the high windows of his chamber, Anakin came up from the meditation with a clearer, easier heart... and a small whisper of an answer nestled carefully within his mind.

* * *

The niggling itch at the back of his mind lead him away from the places he would normally have frequented - away from the bustle of the markets or the quiet atmosphere of the moderate restaurants and bars which he enjoyed. Letting the trickle of Force awareness lead him where it would, Anakin was mildly surprised to find himself standing in the early evening outside the entrance to what proclaimed itself a bar - but not one in a part of town that the Jedi Knight would willingly have ventured into.

After a moment's hesitation - the itch persisted, like an off tune hum that vibrated in the inner bones of his skull - he shifted his lightsaber to the back of his hip and wrapped his cloak tighter around him, concealing his tunic. The precaution mattered little except to his peace of mind; the people on Coruscant knew better than anywhere else what the Jedi looked like.

The bar was dimly lit in shades of red and gold inside, a light which did little to make it's rough furnishings more appealing. The district was close to one of the spaceports and the clientele of the small establishment reflected that position - offworlders and all races, a babble of different languages in the smokey air. It was far enough from the seedier areas to at least be considered relatively 'safe', but still a far cry from what a respectable citizen might visit.

Glancing once around the tables, Anakin made his way to the bar. The bartender glanced at him, but if he recognized or cared that a Jedi had entered his establishment he gave no notice. The drink Anakin ordered was thumped down onto the bar with a grunt, the credits he extended disappearing with the ease of practice. Turning away from the bar, drink cradled in his hands, Anakin took a better look at the patrons. Private spacers in eclectic clothes, crew members in uniforms that were at least relatively clean. Local denizens of Coruscant, clustered into small knots as they enjoyed a drink after the day and a bit of talk.

Taking a sip of the drink, Anakin grimaced. The mix was not weaker, as he had thought the establishment would do, but instead proportionally stronger than what the Jedi would normally have drunk. It burned his throat on the way down, fumes stinging his sinuses until he suppressed a sneeze. Only after the burning had faded to a tingling did the flavor of it come forward again, dark and musky against his tongue. Shaking his head, he set the drink aside. There had been times in his life when he would have been more than willing to down such a drink, and several of its kindred besides, but the alcohol would only blunt the guiding hum of the Force.

Which was no closer to telling him why it had brought him there. He had learned not to argue with the gut-level instincts that the Force provided, but it made understanding the urges that could be more like puzzle boxes than anything else no easier. Some - like the first time he had set eyes upon Amidala's face and had seen, in a flash, the future that stretched out before them - were life shaking but simple. Others, like the earlier flash that still haunted the back of his mind, could not be easily interpreted until too late. Still others, such as the hum that still echoed in him, centered for no discernible reason on the bar around him, were far more vague.

There was a small commotion in one corner, centered around the gaming tables. Anakin looked towards it, catching a glimpse of one of the sabacc tables between the clustered spectators. Sabacc normally didn't draw viewers, but the stakes had grown higher than the casual handful of credits normally played for in such places. Hardly bank breaking, but the credit chips piled in the center of the table represented a more than decent winning for someone. The players - a Rodian and three humans - were bent over their cards and intent upon the game.

It wasn't until another gap parted in the small crowd that Anakin saw the boy. Dark hair drawn back into a tight tail, he had changed the neat gray tunic of an initiate for a non-descript charcoal shirt and brown trousers. But the young face, concentrating intent upon the card chips in his hand, bore the same look as it had three evenings before when he had faced the girl in the battle arena. 'Spirit', Anakin had called it then, and he wasn't inclined to change the description now. The boy had more courage then common sense, to come to a place like this.

The sun was well set and it was far past curfew for initiates of the Temple. Worse, he was certain no one had granted the boy leave - initiates were let off the Temple grounds only for special circumstances or proscribed holidays. A small glass of something sat by the boy's hand - mostly full, Anakin noted with approval, but drinking of any type was frowned upon for the initiates. Gambling most certainly was, which made the fact that the boy was not only playing sabacc but playing it competently against multiple players almost amazing.

Leaving his drink on the bar, Anakin drifted closer to the gaming tables, subtly creating a path for himself until he had a better view of the game. The players were entering what would probably be their last round of play - one of the humans, a ship pilot, folded in disgust and walked away. The remaining three players placed their bets, the boy hesitating but finally meeting the challenge of the Rodian's stack of credits from the ones gathered near his elbow. This obviously wasn't his first game of the evening.

A trickle of Force, not directed at him but used somewhere around him, whispered into Anakin's consciousness. It was weak, a thready sporadic burst that wavered unsteadily. The boy, he realized. It would have to be. It felt like the first untrained efforts of a babe, rather than what should have been the skilled touch of a grown initiate. But it was there, weak as it was, and Anakin could easily track it's direction at the cards in the boy's hand. Wrapped around the chips, it willed the cards to remain still, to not be changed by the random shuffling of the sabacc deck. Enough to pull off the trick, but barely. Obi-Wan was right. The boy would never have been accepted to the Temple in former days.

But there was something about him, and the urgings of the Force had lead Anakin here. Frowning slightly, the Jedi watched the remainder of the game, keeping his eyes on the boy.

The other human took a card, growled a curse and folded, his hand overplayed. The Rodian pushed two cards into the interference field, then shoved the rest of his credits into the betting pool, watching the boy all the while. The boy hesitated, fingering his cards, then matched the bet. Just as he did so Anakin felt the faint ripple of the randomizer as it shuffled the cards. The boy, distracted, could not keep all of them from shifting. Panic flashed in his dark eyes as one of the cards in his hand changed. Kept close to his chest the cards were not visible, but Anakin could see their value in the boy's mind. The changed card had ruined the numbering, making the boy's hand worthless.

A purely emotional burst of strong Force rippled out from the boy, unshielded and unfocused... and the card wavered for a moment before turning back to its original value. The boy didn't see it, panic freezing him as he looked at the stacks of chips in the center of the table. The loss would cost him everything he had earned earlier. The Rodian, seeing the panic in his eyes, hooted a soft laughter and laid its cards down on the tabletop. The shift had changed it's hand only for the better, giving it a neat twenty-two count.

Swallowing convulsively, the boy shook his head. He seemed about to fold, leaving his card chips face down on the table - but then determination steeled his features. Throwing his shoulders back, he flipped his cards over and pushed them forward.

No one was more surprised to see a perfect twenty-three, least of all the boy who ogled the cards with astonishment. The Rodian cursed, looking ready to protest, but a companion was plucking at his sleeve and with an ungraceful shove the alien scattered his cards and pushed the credits towards the boy. The game was over.

The Rodian was leaving the table, the spectators dispersing. With eager hands the boy collected the credits from the center of the table, stacking them neatly. Anakin smiled, stepping forward and sliding into one of the vacated seats. "Would you care for another hand?" He pulled a handful of credits from his belt and pushed them onto the table.

The boy looked up, glancing at him - then glanced again, all color draining from his face. "Sir... I..."

"You," Anakin said clearly and firmly, "have left Temple grounds without permission, gone out of your way to find a disreputable bar, are drinking - which is forbidden to initiates - and gambling - which is also forbidden." He dropped his voice. "We won't even mention how you're winning, as it's a flagrant abuse of everything you've been taught and enough to get you killed by one of your disgruntled opponents." Gathering up the cards chips, he shuffled them easily. "But taking you to task for all of that isn't why I'm here. I'm here to play a game of sabacc. Would you care for another hand?"

The boy's mouth was gaping open, his face parchment white. Dark eyes flickered, watching Anakin's hands shuffle the cards. Swallowing, his eyes never leaving Anakin's hands, he nodded. His voice was a faint disbelieving whisper. "Yes, sir."

Smiling, Anakin triggered the randomizer and deftly dealt the cards. The boy's hands shook as he picked them up, sorting through them quickly. Anakin barely glanced at his own, already well aware of both his own hand as well as the boy's.

Taking another card, he slid half the stack of credits into the center of the table without counting them. "I saw your fight, the other day," he remarked.

The boy flinched, almost dropping the card he was taking. Expressive lips turned down at the corners. "Then you know why I'm here," he answered defiantly. Reaching into his former winnings, he pushed an equal stack towards the center.

"No, I don't," Anakin replied. "Other than to line your pockets." He made a show of considering for a moment, then pushed the rest of the credits in.

The boy shook his head, dark fringes of hair around his forehead falling into his eyes. "No, sir. An initiate doesn't have any use for credits." He grimaced. "Though it'll be good later. I'm not going to be a Knight." He glanced up then, checking for a reaction. Anakin only met his eyes steadily until the boy dropped them again. "You saw. I'm no good. I'll never be a Jedi." Dark eyes flashed up again, defiant. "But I'm a good pilot. I won't go to AgriCorps - when they turn me out of the Temple I'll win enough to get my own ship and pilot her."

"Ah, then this is practice." Anakin watched the boy make his move, placing one card in the interference field and matching the bet with some confidence. Anakin reached out with a tendril of Force to trigger the change of the deck. The boy flinched almost imperceptibly as his remaining cards shifted for the worse. "How old are you?"

"I'll be thirteen in two weeks," was the reply. Anakin opened himself to the Force, tasting the swirling emotions around the boy. A touch of sullenness there, of frustration and fear and helpless anger. Master Yoda would have said that it was the path to the Dark Side. Anakin read it as the insecurities of youth, a youth who knew his own shortcomings and was anxious to get past the unpleasantness of assured rejection to the point where he could take charge of his own life once more and sink or swim by the skills he knew.

Glancing at his own hand, which had remained unchanged, Anakin nodded to himself. "I call." Laying his cards down on the table, Anakin displayed a pure sabacc. The boy slumped slightly, but gamely reached out to push his credits towards the Jedi. Anakin shook his head, reversing the gesture. "Take them. I was cheating far more then you." Smiling to take the sting from his words, he made to rise. "I hope we have a chance to play again. I'm Skywalker, by the way. Anakin Skywalker."

"Sir," the boy replied automatically, startled. Hesitating, he clasped Anakin's offered wrist. Swallowing convulsively, he bobbed a quick nod. "Han Solo, sir."

Anakin smiled. "You're a good player, Han. But take a word of advice - learn to bluff better. And don't let your teachers find you out here."

"Yes sir," Han answered quickly. Slim fingered hands were already making quick work of stowing the credit chips in pockets. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it." Retrieving a chip from where it had slipped beneath the discarded card, Anakin flipped it to the boy who caught it neatly and almost unthinkingly, hand flashing out to intercept the credit with more Force assurance than the boy had mustered all night under conscious control. Smiling to himself, Anakin turned away and departed the bar. He had no doubt that the boy was capable of returning undetected to the Temple the same way he had left it.

Outside, he let the smile broaden into a grin. Infuriatingly vague though it was, the hum had proven right once more. If no one else had seen the hidden potential in the boy then there might be objections, but he was rather used to that. He would argue it with the Council on the morrow. And maybe they wouldn't even object; the Force rarely guided his feelings wrong and it echoed with affirmation of his guess now, urging him on towards the path it wanted him to take. The boy, Han, might argue it - he had been certain of the fate that awaited him, resigned to it and almost expectant - but Anakin didn't think there was any record of an initiate declining to be taken as Padawan.

[...to next stage]


End file.
